Stockholm Syndrome
by Joelcoxriley
Summary: Two months after the events in the decaying farmstead, Mathieu Bellamont and Shealyne are recovering from their traumas. However, when Shealyne gets a Dead Drop to target a wealthy merchant, her partner accompanies her. After taking the merchant's daughter hostage, the pair discover a problem: the daughter has fallen for Bellamont. *Sequel to Flesh and Soul.*


**Hello! This is the sequel to Flesh and Soul. This one will be far less violent/disturbing, and far more tame compared to its prequel. The story will not be too long, I inagine, and I am sure that the chapters will be shorter until I get back in the groove. Like Flesh and Soul, this story will be within Mathieu Bellamont's point of view.**

 **As you can probably guess, this story is also based almost exactly on a dream. I have not written in a long time, so I apologize if my writing quality/POV tone is not even close to Flesh and Soul's (which I hold in high regard as one of my best works, despite its flaws). Rating may go up, depending.**

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It has been two months since my Sister and I escaped that Sithis forsaken house. I often find myself cursing that damnable place and its occupants. Though I can find pleasure in the fact that I ended all their horrid lives and sent their souls screaming into the dark emptiness that is the Void, I still find myself haunted by them.

I do not regret what I did, no. On the contrary, I relish it. I relish every damn memory of harm I caused. Every time I slammed that decrepit, dead eyed bastard's broken skull against the wall, that feeling of forcing the blade so far down the woman's gaping maw that it ruptured her throat...If only I could remember what I did to that puss gutted bloated bastard: the defiler. I wish I could remember, but I suppose seeing the aftermath will have to be enough.

Sometimes, when I dream, I go back there, and I think I remember. But when I wake up, the memories fragment and slip through my hands like sand, and the vision is lost again. As much as I relish these memories, I hate them.

I hate them so damn much.

My home at times reminds me of that mold infested basement, and sometimes when I enter, it feels like I am back there. Stepping down into the bowels of that horror, eager to find yet unwilling to see. I wanted to find Shealyne. But I did not want to find her like that. Not...not like that...

When there is darkness in my home, sometimes I think I hear it, the rape. Just right next to me, so close but so far in the blackness of my home. Almost like I am there again. But I know it is just a figment of my mind. At times I will check on my Sister, when I think I hear the noise at night, to see if she is still there, by my side. She always is, when she is actually here, anyway.

There are moments when I hear footsteps up above-from my landlord. I know it is just him, but occasionally, I swear I hear that damnable thunk and dragging of a metal leg. I know it is all in my head. I know it is not real. But at times, it seems as such. And that is why I hate these damn memories.

I hate them, and even if I would gladly kill those miserable occupants again and again and again, it would never be enough to rid me of the memories. To rid me of the anger I have for them.

My leg has not yet fully healed, either. I cannot run or jump, yet at least I can currently walk with the aid of a cane, despite the pain I still have. Fucking decrepit old man...I wish I did tear his hunch backed spine out. Shealyne makes fun of me, and jests that I am getting old due to my use of a cane. Hmmph!

I think the thing I hate the most in regards to these traumas is my actual handicap. With my mobility limited, I have not been able to complete a Dead Drop ever since my injury. And with my slow recovery, I doubt I will be able to for some time. Damn window shard...it does not help that my blade arm is getting twitchy.

Shealyne does not have that problem. The gash upon her side has healed well, and she can freely come and go to her dead heart's content. While her body has healed well, her mental scarring has not.

For she and I being Silencers of the Black Hand, one would think us impervious to mental and emotional horrors. Alas, the facade of indifference is just that: a mask. Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, I am far better at wearing my mask than my Dearest Sister.

Shealyne will sometimes refuse to drink, even if what is in a cup is blood for her feeding. She will stare at the contents of the cup, perhaps even sniff it, and scrunch her nose, then set it back down. I have witnessed her at times pouring the liquid contents from metal cup to metal cup, as if playing a child's game where they slop in the water. She told me she is looking for maggots, even though she knows that there will be none present. Though why she would look for maggots is beyond me. But then again, that house did have a lot of flies and larvae. Dumb flies that liked to smack against your forehead. Shealyne has also told me that when she drinks, she tastes mold. I guess we have a trade off. She tastes mold. I smell mold. Though that very well could be because of the actual mold in my home-which I am quite sure is present.

Despite my Sister's antics, that is not the most concerning trait I have seen. Shealyne has been vomiting quite often, lately. Though I have witnessed these occurrences when cooking. She claims it is the smell of cooking meat that reminds her, or even when she attempts to cook, sometimes she still envisions a human head within the boiling water, just under the surface. Or, rather, imagines that there will be one. But that happens only sometimes. It's mainly with cooking meat.

I admit, my Sister seems worse than I. Shealyne attempts to tell me that she is fine, and she attempts to hide it, but I know her. I know enough that not everything is fine with her, and she knows that not everything is fine with me. Yet, we attempt to carry on, as if nothing is wrong.

But I can't carry on. I am getting irate, and feeling as if I am trapped within the confines of my own damn home. Like I am stuck, frozen in time whilst the word moves about around me. As if I am a damn tiny pebble, and the current-time and people, flowing around me. I need to be doing something. Anything. And I thought resisting to kill LaChance when I had the chance was maddening. This was a new type of hell. Haunted by memories and feeling that I am not making any progress.

I should have hacked off that skeletal man's other damn leg off with his rusted up axe...

But, perhaps, soon, I can find freedom once again. Shealyne has been active with her Dead Drops. Perhaps I can accompany her on the next one? I am sure Mother will be fine, all on her own, for a bit.

Yes. Mother will be fine. I will not be gone long, and once I return, I can start anew, and seek to sever LaChance's head from his shoulders as he did to you, all that long ago!

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 **Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think of my crappy writing so far!**


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